“I’m not so sure,” said the gentleman of the previous questions. “How many votes can you hurt us, Stirling?”
“I don’t know,” Peter looked very contented.
“You can’t expect to beat us single?”
Peter smiled quietly. “I haven’t had time to see many men. But—I’m not single. Bohlmann says the brewers will back me, Hummel says he’ll be guided by me, and the President won’t interfere.”
“You might as well give up,” continued the previous questioner. “The Sixth is a sure thirty-five hundred to the bad, and between Stirling’s friends, and the Hummel crowd, and Bohlmann’s people, you’ll lose twenty-five thousand in the rest of the city, besides the Democrats you’ll frighten off by the Labor party. You can’t put it less than thirty-five thousand, to say nothing of the hole in the campaign fund.”
The beauty about a practical politician is that votes count for more than his own wishes. Number One said:
“Well, that’s ended. You’ve smashed our slate. What have you got in its place?”
“Porter?” suggested Peter.
“No,” said three voices.
“We can’t stand any more of him,” said Number One.